we come again to the season
when what we think we see
is bent and the hands that reach
to straighten are then bent.

when throughout this land
at every turn hourly, we
are bought by the rhythmic
chants that despite knowing better,
should know better.

there is an odd balance,
between amounts, wealth, annuity,
versus the naked broken truth
and the persistent questions
of why should we do that
to ourselves and each other
and how quickly we unlisten.

i am inelegant in my despair
powerless as bird in net.
i am near desperate with
desire to clean floors and windows
and shake by the shoulders
the cringing elite and the
folding others;  decide, i plead, that
we are one, and speak it that way.